


Do You Still Talk To God?

by LordoftheMachine



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordoftheMachine/pseuds/LordoftheMachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needed better than white walls, beeping machines, the sun through ugly curtains, and self medication. He needed Marco, naps at noon, a clean apartment, this now lumpy bed... and something else he wasn't quite sure of yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Still Talk To God?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RosannaPhantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosannaPhantom/gifts).



Maybe white walls and that constant beeping were better than self medication and contemplation of all things wrong in the world, whether they effected the thinker or not. In theory, it should have been, but the ceiling was too high, the room was too cold, and someone could really close a curtain in this goddamn place.   
“Cue the music....”   
Jean sat up slowly and looked around the room with its beeping machine and open window and overly bright sun. Why was in here anyway?   
Oh yeah, something to do with vodka and pills. The self medication step. Not advisable when drunk.   
Big mistake... Marco would not be happy.   
Wait, where the fuck was Marco? He wouldn't be happy but surely he wouldn't have left Jean alone at a fucking hospital. God, what time was it? How bad was it? He just wanted to go home....  
The visit from the nurse was almost a blur; some bullshit about an accidental overdose and a fucking duh warning about mixing alcohol and medicine.   
Yes ma'am, yes ma'am, I'll be a good boy, ma'am. Let me go home now, ma'am.  
Thank fuck he could finally do so.   
Somewhere between getting away from the nurse and getting dressed and sitting on the toilet to hide away from whatever was waiting outside of the hospital, Marco had shown up and was waiting patiently on the bed. Jean could have kicked himself right in the jaw when he saw the sadness on the other man's face. Boy, did you fuck up.   
“Hey... I thought you said I wasn't gonna wake up alone anymore,” Jean gave him a small smile. Maybe he could calm the waters if he played the cute card?   
There was a moment of silence as Marco stood up and just looked at him. It must not have lasted very long, but to Jean it stopped the hands on the clock.   
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'm sorry, Marco.   
He'd started to say something to break the silence, anything that would make this okay but before he could even think of what words would be acceptable, Marco was hugging him as tightly as he could without breaking him in half. He tried telling him it was okay, but he wasn't sure his mouth was even moving. Either way, Marco wasn't hearing it over the tears that shook his entire body.   
They stayed that way until Marco was able to calm down and after they exited the hospital, they left it at that for the time being. An overnight stay at a white room with its constant beeps... But that had to be better than self medication and contemplation on all the things wrong with the world.

“Want to grab some coffee?” Was the first sentence Marco had fully formed that morning. Their walk home from the hospital was purposely slow and quiet, like Marco was avoiding their destination for as long as possible and Jean could only feel a lump in his stomach because of it. He must have trashed their apartment pretty bad.   
“Maybe we should get home?”   
“Yeah....” Why did those words seem to weigh a ton? Maybe he was fearing for the worst and it really wasn't as bad as he was expected.   
Of all the times to be right. It was like a tornado had decided to make a stop at their apartment and make itself at home. The bed was a mess, mattress flipped off of the frame and blankets and sheets a tangled mess on top of pillows. They'd had a lamp beside the bed at one point but it was now nothing more than broken pieces of ceramic scattered across the floor along with everything else that had been on the little table beside the bed. Clothes were strewn about carelessly along with Marco's book collection and half of all the canvases Jean had ever bothered painting on. Not even the curtains had survived his drunken wrath. He couldn't even find the bottle of vodka.   
“Some wreck, huh? I must have had a real Girl, Interrupted episode, huh?” He always fell back on humor. He was good at that. Maybe it wasn't the right kind of humor, all things considered.   
“I got rid of the bottle for you. There wasn't anything left anyway, you spilled it all over the bathroom floor. Pills too.”  
A little nod was all he could give Marco on the subject, “Do they make any movies like that about guys?”  
“You're the movie buff, remember?” Marco wasn't much for movies but Jean had managed to drag him to the theatre enough for them to see whatever new action film caught his interested. Thinking on it, he wasn't sure if he'd ever sat down and watched Girl, Interrupted with him. It was alright for guys to like that movie, right?   
He went about fixing the bed, flipping the mattress back into place, “I'll be Jean, interrupted,” next were the sheets and blankets but he made no point of making the bed neatly.  
“Are we going to talk about this at all?”   
“Okay. You can be the schizophrenic and I get to be the pathological liar.”   
“You know I'm not talking about the movie, Jean.”   
There it was. “It was an accident. I drank too much and I got a headache and... I really am Wynona Ryder.”   
“Who?”   
“The movie, keep up,” Jean sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out for Marco's hand.  
“Jean....” Marco hesitantly took his hand and sat down next to him.  
“She took a whole bottle of aspirin to get rid of a headache but in reality it was a suicide attempt. The big different between she and I is that I don't want to die and I lack a mental illness to make me feel that way.”   
Marco frowned, “Should I be worried about you? Do they want you to talk to someone?”   
Jean shrugged and laid back on the bed, “No and maybe. I heard less than half of what that nurse was telling me to be honest. She was nice but I don't need to talk to anyone,” he was lazily tracing patterns along the back of Marco's shirt. “Who would I need to talk to when I have you right here?”  
That made him smile at least.   
“Trust me, Speckles, I have 33 reasons I can think of right now that would keep me alive if I ever did want to off myself.”   
“That many?” Marco gave him a little grin.  
“Yeah. 31 freckles on your face and your smile makes 32. Pizza makes 33.”   
What started out as a rough morning ended in Marco's sweet laughter and a very long nap, Jean placing little kisses all over Marco's freckled cheeks until sleep consumed them both.   
He needed better than white walls, beeping machines, the sun through ugly curtains, and self medication. He needed Marco, naps at noon, a clean apartment, this now lumpy bed... and something else he wasn't quite sure of yet.


End file.
